


Vignettes of Anguish

by InnerMuse



Series: Broken [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Dark, F/M, Rescue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:12:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerMuse/pseuds/InnerMuse
Summary: Miscellaneous things set in my Broken AU, in which the Inquisitor is tortured by a demon of Anguish that looks like Cullen on Red Lyrium.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mintpearlvoice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintpearlvoice/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen goes to rescue his love, and she thinks he's there to torture her some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by mintpearlvoice's comments on the latest chapter of the previous work in this series. This isn't canon to that fic, but it was certainly fun to write! I suspect I will come back to this after I finish the other one, or that I will at least have more what-if oneshots to write, so I left the work unfinished.

Kelandris doesn't cry out when the door of her cell clangs open abruptly, but it's a very near thing. _No,_ she wants to wail, _No, it's too soon!_ Instead, she bites down on the inside of her cheek until she tastes a familiar copper tang. Swallowing the mouthful of blood, she braces herself for her tormentor's greeting: the sound of her name on once-beloved lips, perhaps accompanied by a cruelly clawed caress— 

_"Kelandris!"_

His shout is raw and rough and ragged, and she _flinches_ at the unexpected sharpness. He's never sounded like that before. Rapid footfalls mark his approach, and a whimper rises in her throat – why is he so eager? What awful torment must he have in store for her, to show such fervor? But it's only when she sees him that she knows true terror. Because he looks... he looks like Cullen. Gone are the rents in his armor, sprouting crystals like congealing blood; gone is the unnatural crimson of his gaze, wreathed in writhing tendrils of sanguine light; gone are the nightmare-bladed claws marring the tips of his fingers. It's just  _him_ , just her Commander, as if he'd stepped directly out of her memories and into her cell— but it must be a trick, a trap, _something_ , because he cannot be real, and Blessed Maker she _does not understand!_

All Kelandris knows for certain is that Cullen is worse than dead, and the only thing she'll ever receive at the hands of the monster he's become is pain. That lesson has been etched into her flesh a thousand times over.

But it's not enough to stop her heart from clenching when he whispers "Oh, Maker," brokenly, the way he used to when she woke him from a nightmare – one of the bad ones, the lingering ones, the ones that left him trembling in her arms – and she knows what that's like, now, knows it far too intimately. This is _her_ nightmare, and one from which she'll never wake – but even trapped in its unending maw, still,  _still,_ she

cannot

stop

loving him—

She's almost grateful when he fumbles with her chains. It's so much easier to hate him when she's seizing up in agony. But of course the bastard spoils it by jerking back, a seemingly-heartfelt apology spilling from his lips – _I'm sorry, love, I'll be more careful! I have to get these off you, I'm so sorry..._ There are tears on her face – she can tell from the way they burn against her ravaged cheeks. It's all a lie. An awful, horrible, _revolting_ lie, but oh, she misses him, she misses him so _much,_  Maker, Cullen, _Cullen_ , she can't—

"Andraste's _blood!"_ The oath reverberates around the dungeon as he cracks open her spiked bonds. Her cry of pain drowns out the scrape of metal against bone. "Oh, Kelandris, I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry—"

"Liar!" Suffering is the catalyst she needs to turn her anguish into rage. "We both know you just like to hear me scream!"

_"What?!_ Beloved, it's me, it's Cullen—" He touches her face, and she flinches back from his strange soft fingers, teeth bared in a furious snarl.

"Shut up! You filthy scum, you're not the man I love. Cullen is  _dead,_  and I _hate_ you, you fucking bastard!"

For a moment, his face is frozen in a rictus of horror. The expression throws her off; he should be smirking, basking in her vitriol. Kelandris doesn't understand – what is going _on?_ A noise from outside snaps him out of his paralysis – a distant clanging crash, like armor hitting stone. The other red Templars, obviously; her tormentor never seems to care when they fight amongst themselves, as long as they're not tearing each other apart. Today must be different, though, because he swears as he glances at the door.

"No time," he mutters to himself, and when he looks back at her, his face is hard. "I have to get you out of here. I know you don't believe me, Ke— Inquisitor," he says, voice cracking, "But truly, I am sorry. Maker forgive me for what I must do; this is going to hurt." And then, grasping the metal band around her wrist, he pulls it open.

-

Cullen thought he was prepared for Kelandris to scream – but when she does, it feels like he's being eviscerated. The sound is worse than he imagined; he would give just about anything to never hear it again. He thanks the Maker that she chokes it off quickly, only to be struck with a wave of terrible guilt: _you just like to hear me scream_ , she'd snarled; her silence is born from spite, not consideration. That awful silence is broken a moment later when she moans, slumping, half-free of her bonds. He tries to catch her, but as soon as he wraps an arm around her torso, her moan rises to a keen. With a whimper of his own, he slings his other arm around her hips instead, boosting her up so she can lean against his chest. When he takes the arm from her back, his gauntlet and vambrace come away slick with blood. He blanches. _Maker have mercy, what have they_ done?

Kelandris doesn't react when he maneuvers her free arm to drape across his shoulders. Carefully, he lets her go – he'll need both hands to free her. She hisses, but hangs on, supporting at least some of her own weight. Cullen looks up at her other wrist, dread churning in his gut. He would sooner chop off a limb than cause his lady any more pain, but he has no other choice. He has to get her loose. When he reaches for the second manacle, though... she begs. "Please," she rasps, and "don't," and "please" again... When did he start crying? This is one of his worst nightmares – but he cannot falter now, not when she needs him strong, and so he grits his teeth, and tries to block out the sounds of her distress, and pries open the last of her vile restraints.

She curses him as she collapses. He murmurs her name, softly, like a prayer, like a plea. "It's me," he says, "I'm here." It only earns him another scathing epithet. Flinching, he lowers his beloved carefully to the ground, talking quietly all the while. He vows that he won't hurt her; he tells her that she's safe, now; he promises that this is real, swears it by the Maker and His holy Bride... But the more he tries to calm her, the more insensate she becomes. She's sobbing as she snarls, and every ragged curse pierces through him like a dagger to the heart. There's nothing he can say that will convince her of her rescue; not here, not like this, not while she's in so much pain. Shaking, he pulls out a healing potion. He can at least do something for her _physical_ wounds – but as soon as he tries to press the vial to her lips, she thrashes, knocking it out of his hand. He stares after it as it rolls across the floor, spilling its contents all over the bloodstained flagstones. He has more, but if she will not drink...

The last time he felt such wrenching helplessness, he was groveling at the top of Kinloch Hold.

The sound of distant combat echoes down the hallway once again, briefly drowning out the tinkle of glass on stone. He's running out of time; he has to get Kelandris out of here, before red Templar reinforcements fall upon them both. But moving her in this condition would be far too dangerous.

"Inquisitor, please," he implores her, trying not to sound as pathetically desperate as he feels, "You must take a potion – it's just elfroot, I promise." He fumbles with another vial, holds it up to her mouth; this time, she merely turns away, staring balefully up at him, wordless and defiant. Another clash of blades sounds from down the corridor; are they getting closer? There's no more room for delay – one way or another, he _has_ to get through to his love. Hardening his heart, he takes a deep breath, and curls his fingers through her hair. His grip is as tight as he can bear to make it – which is hardly tight at all, but it's still enough to make her wince, and more than enough to fill him with self-loathing. But gentle coaxing isn't working, and she's already showing so much fear...

"Drink," he orders, injecting his voice with a pitiless edge he hasn't used since Kirkwall, one he meant to never use again, "Or I'll force this down your throat." _Please_ , he adds silently. _Please, Maker, don't make me follow through! I will never, ever forgive myself_... Kelandris jerks like he's slapped her ( _I'm so sorry, my love_ ) – but at last, she drinks, and he lets her go, relieved beyond measure.

Thirty seconds later, once the fast-acting potion is doing its work, he makes to lift her gently into his arms. And then she starts to _shriek_ , and Cullen nearly drops her.

" _No! **No!**_ You can't put me through this again. Please, you can't, you _can't!_ Maker, please no— Cullen, _please_ , I l-love you. I'll do anything you want, _anything_ , just don't force me to be whole so you can break me again! Please _please_ _**PLEASE NO**_ _ **—!"**_

His mind has gone numb. _If I ever find the ones who did this_ , he thinks, distantly, _I will murder them. Violently._  His beloved won't stop screaming, despite all his futile efforts to calm her down. He's finally forced to clap a hand over her mouth – and then she cowers beneath his touch, wide-eyed and trembling. It takes every ounce of his control to keep from breaking down right then and there.

"I won't," he says instead. "But I'm going to take you somewhere else, and I'll need you to be still and quiet for a while. Can you do that?"

Her terrified nod makes him feel like a monster, but at least she won't keep fighting him, now. Maker willing, he'll be able to lead them from this horrific place. And once he has, he will do anything and everything in his power to reassure his lady that she's free, and safe, and _loved._ No one will ever hurt Kelandris, ever again. Never. Not while he draws breath.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [on tumblr!](http://inner-muse.tumblr.com/) Come talk to me! <3


End file.
